


Storm

by October_rust



Series: Drowning/Currents [5]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval/Fantasy, Angst, Jealousy, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 07:59:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14076432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/October_rust/pseuds/October_rust
Summary: Lord Wayne has to sign a treaty with General Slade Wilson. The celebratory feast leads to more tension between himself and Jason.





	Storm

“I must admit, I'm really enjoying your hospitality, Lord Wayne.”

Slade – General Wilson, Jason corrects himself – is staring at Lord Wayne over the rim of his goblet. His single eye twinkles, insolent, as he takes a sip. “Excellent wine.”

“Thank you,” Lord Wayne replies with a polite nod, ever the courteous host. Still, there's a coldness about his manner, a rigidity to his demeanor that betrays his displeasure. It was the King who ordered Lord Wayne to negotiate and sign a treaty with General Wilson, and, honor-bound, Lord Wayne complied with the King's wishes.

But his distaste at the proceedings is obvious, more so amid all the merriment, laughter and music ringing through the castle's great hall. 

“Excellent wine in an excellent company,” General Wilson continues, his gaze still fixed on Lord Wayne. “A pity sir Richard and sir Timothy couldn't join us tonight.” His voice drops, the syllables of Grayson's and Drake's names rolling off his tongue in an almost obscene way.

Lord Wayne doesn't rise to the bait. His eyes, however, flash with anger for a split second, the warning clear. “A pity indeed. But this, ah, arrangement between the King and yourself, General Wilson, was so unexpected that I didn't have the time to call them back to Gotham.” 

“I understand. Duty above everything else.” General Wilson nods in mock sympathy. “And they are so dutiful, aren't they, Lord Wayne? Your two most trusted knights. So brave, so strong, and so fair of face. You must sleep so much better knowing that they are protecting the borders of your lands. Even though, I'm sure, you miss them terribly.”

Each compliment is laden with dirty implications, skirting closer and closer to an outright insult. And sitting as he is, on Lord Wayne's left and opposite General Wilson, Jason can do nothing else but bear it and clench his fists under the table. 

He knows where this is going.

He knows it – but it still cuts him like a blade, shame and rage burning through him, when Wilson finally says the words. “At least, while they are away from home, you can amuse yourself with the Red Hood.”

Lord Wayne's expression stays impassive. “Amuse myself?”

Wilson scratches at his neatly trimmed beard, then drinks again. “Well, yes. And to think that a binding spell was all it took to tame him.” He shakes his head. “Should have done it myself, when I had the chance.” 

“Is that so?” Lord Wayne doesn't even glance at Jason. 

“Oh, yes. He didn't tell you?” General Wilson smiles and licks at his wine-stained lips. “Not so long ago, the Hood was riding under my banner. If only I'd been faster and thought about the binding spell, he'd be mine today. But, alas, you outwitted me, Lord Wayne. To the victor go the spoils, eh?”

Jason tightens his jaw. He's staring at the wall, his cheeks burning, the buzzing in his ears drowning out the sounds of the feast. 

It's not like Slade is entirely wrong about Jason and Lord Wayne. A dog on a leash, collared by his master – that's how Jason often thinks of himself in his darkest moments, when his bitterness threatens to choke him and the things he wants seem even more unattainable than usual. 

But ever since that bout of Pit fever – and, delirious as he was, Jason still remembers his lord's arms around him, still remembers his lord's tears – something has shifted. Oh, they don't speak about it, pretend it didn't happen, but the memory persists, soothing and frustrating in equal measure. 

So for Slade to suggest that he could ever have that kind of power over Jason, to have him all helpless … 

No.

“You are mistaken, general,” Lord Wayne's cold voice pierces through Jason's thoughts, draws his attention back to Wayne and Wilson. “There is no binding spell. Only an old oath, given by a knight to his lord. That's the only magic at work here.” 

General Wilson straightens at that, surprised. “So the rumors are true. He really is your – ”

“My knight, yes. Sir Todd is keeping his word,” Lord Wayne says, still chillingly formal. “He's serving me and the realm, repenting for his past sins. And you'd do well to remember that, general.”

After a pause, Wilson actually bows his head. “Forgive me my lord.” He glances at Jason, a knowing, satisfied look in his eye. “And you too, sir Todd.”

Silent, Jason grits his teeth and accepts the apology.

***

It's late at night, well after the feast is over, when Jason slips past the guards, into Lord Wayne's study.

The logs in the fireplace crack, and the flames burst up higher. Apart from that, the only source of light in the chamber is the brass candleholder on the desk. The shadows dance over the inkpots and quills, the neatly folded parchments. The treaty with General Wilson is there as well. It's spread out, the corners held down by the paperweights. Jason can see Lord Wayne's seal and elegant signature at the bottom of the scroll.

“So you served under him,” Lord Wayne says, not opening his eyes. He's lounging in the leather chair, his head thrown back. The high collar of his black doublet is undone, the long arch of his throat exposed. 

Jason stares at the sliver of pale skin, drags his gaze up, back to Lord Wayne's face. The strands of black hair are in disarray, the sharp cheekbones tinged with pink. Too much wine, he thinks, and takes a step forward. 

“Under him? With him, more like,” he says. The air is thick, and something like apprehension and excitement twist in his gut as he slowly approaches Lord Wayne. “We joined forces a few times, that's all.”

He stops at Lord Wayne's side, almost brushing against the hand resting on the carved armrest. And because he always has to yank at his chains, always has to test how far he can stretch them, Jason leans down over Wayne and whispers against his lips, “Don't worry, I didn't swear fealty to him. No need to get jealous – “

In an instant, strong arms are around him, pulling him down, grabbing at him, until he loses his balance and tumbles into Lord Wayne's lap. He laughs, triumphant – the chains are tangled all around them both, and his lord is falling together with him – just before hard lips claim his, muffling the sound. 

It's – 

He shudders, gasping into Lord Wayne's mouth, trapped in his lord's embrace. There's no escape, no quarter offered. Underneath him, Lord Wayne's body is like steel, tense and ready for combat. Long fingers keep Jason captive, dig into the hinge of his jaw, so that he has no choice but surrender to his lord.

Jason doesn't, of course. He thrives on this onslaught, answers it with a fury of his own. Their lips clash together, bruising and full of hunger, as he grips his lord's neck, kissing back with so much force that he nearly topples the chair over. 

Madness, pure madness. His lord snarls at Jason, low and guttural, and then he's shoving back, struggling against Jason's weight pinning him down. All the while, he doesn't let Jason retreat even a fraction, biting at Jason's lips, his fingers firm and unyielding on Jason's jaw. 

Jason retaliates, breathing hard through his nose, thrusting his tongue into Lord Wayne's mouth. So uncompromising, so demanding. His blood is throbbing faster, its roar deafening like a war drum, and he rolls his hips, bearing down to feel more, to take more. 

And, gods, his lord is rising up to meet him, thighs coiling, as eager for it as Jason is. 

You're mine. 

It pounds through Jason's mind, punctuating every move he makes, every grind of his hips, every swipe of his tongue. His lord is losing control, and Jason is the one who is stripping away that iron self-restraint and dragging him down. 

Mine, you're – 

All of a sudden, his lord's hand is in Jason's hair, grabbing a fistful and wrenching hard at the strands. Pain flares – yes, more, more – but his lord is already twisting his face away from Jason's, putting an end to their kiss.

Oh, no, you won't, you coward.

Not this time.

Frustrated, his whole body trembling with need, Jason jerks forward and tries to crush his lips back to his lord's. To no avail, however; the fingers in his hair tighten in warning, then give a slightly gentler tug. 

“Jason.”

It's a plea, not a command. And hearing his name spoken like this is enough to make Jason freeze and stare at his lord, arousal and anger both momentarily forgotten. 

He watches as Lord Wayne swallows, face angled away, eyes screwed shut. I did this to him, Jason thinks, stunned and enthralled. His lord's mouth is shiny, ripe and red, still tempting, despite being set into an unhappy line. 

Long minutes pass, and Jason looks his fill. He admires the proud profile, the strong jaw, the noble features drawn tight with shame and desire. Gorgeous – there's no other word for it. 

At last, his lord glances up at Jason. His eyes, almost golden in the firelight, are filled with anguish and guilt.

“I shouldn't have done this,” he says. “Forgive me.”

Jason savors it, the bastard that he is. And yet … 

His gaze lingers on the broad shoulders sagging in defeat, on the weary frown etched between Lord Wayne's brows. Once, a long time ago, Jason forced this man to kneel before him in this very chamber. And now he's brought Lord Wayne low again, made him lose himself and forget about his honor. 

It's a heady victory, calling forth to every possessive instinct within Jason. Now that he knows that a similar darkness and hunger hide in his lord's soul, he wants to bend his head and sink his teeth into that pale throat. Bite it hard, mark it well, feel the pulse throb – and immediately soothe the sting with his tongue. 

Because that's how it has always been between Jason and his lord, hasn't it? Cruelty and tenderness, forever entwined.

Lord Wayne opens his mouth, about to apologize once more, so Jason puts his fingertips to his lord's lips, effectively silencing the words. Wayne's eyes widen at that, start to glint with a tentative hope. Jason smiles in wry amusement before he lowers his hand and wraps his arm around his lord's shoulders. 

His other hand is still clasping Lord Wayne's nape; it takes only the slightest pressure, and then his lord sighs and leans into Jason's embrace, resting his forehead into the crook of Jason's neck.

Cruelty and tenderness, Jason repeats to himself, as he slowly strokes his palm down the powerful back. The stiff muscles relax under his touch, the tension draining away. Jason glances at the treaty on the desk, and wishes he could drive his sword through Slade and the King both. 

“Your knight, huh?” he asks softly, his cheek brushing against the crown of black hair. 

“Yes,” Lord Wayne answers, and his breath is hot on Jason's skin. “My knight.”

Yours, Jason agrees. 

I belong to you.

But you are mine, too, my lord.


End file.
